If this is to End in Fire
by ramblingonandon
Summary: ...then we shall all burn together." [Ed Sheeran; I see Fire] This is not a happy fic, see the genre because it says Tragedy. Set after season 2 on the idea the four of them went to war together. TISSUE WARNING applies here.


**A/N: I told myself not to go there, I told myself time and again...**

 **Disclaimer: don't own anything recognizable here, not making any money. The lyrics at the end are the ones that haunted me until I put the proverbial pen to the paper. **

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" _ **The flame of the inn is dim tonight,  
Too many vacant chairs.  
The sun has lost too much of its light,  
Too many songs have taken flight,  
Too many ghosts on the stairs."**_

 _ **―**_ _ **Grantland Rice**_ _ **  
**_

* * *

It was a cold dawn, like so many others that had recently marked his days. The pale glow of the sun cast the mist in a silver hue and d'Artagnan rubbed away from his eyes the warm haze of the vision of his bride; his beautiful Constance whom he had left behind. War didn't care for one man's life, it didn't wait for the blossoming love to bloom; war had its own schedule to keep and it didn't ask for his opinion.

He was a soldier after all; he had sworn away his opinion to duty and the crown.

Feeling decidedly low the young man pushed his stiff limbs to move, it felt like the frost of the night had settled in his joints making him much wearier than his age should allow. With a groan he sat up straighter against the tree at his back; if only his father could see him now, d'Artagnan snorted at the thought and inhaled the sharp chill in the air.

He coughed and shuddered.

" _Are you alright Monsieur? Would you like another one?"_

" _He has had enough,"_

" _Not enough," he says._

A dark head came in his view and though the bushy beard hid the dimples the smile was no less bright. Porthos grinned wider at finding him awake and pushed through until his looming shadow enveloped the boy completely where he sat. D'Artagnan decided he could spend his entire life in that shadow; safe in the knowledge that nothing could harm him with Porthos around.

"I thought I heard you sniffling," Porthos smiled and pulled him to his feet, "come on let's get you something to warm up."

"I don't think I can ever warm up in this frozen hell," d'Artagnan groaned and swayed a little as blood flooded to his toes.

"Nonsense," Porthos pulled him along, "if the porridge won't work we can always spar."

The younger Musketeer groaned. It was all d'Artagnan could do to clutch his musket close and steady the rapier sheathed at his waist as Porthos dragged him towards the camp fire.

"Ah d'Artagnan! I was just coming to get you." Aramis stood up from where he was stirring a large pot over the fire, "I made breakfast."

He thrust a bowl of some suspicious looking semi-liquid into his hands. The boy smiled weakly as he took a seat beside Athos on a fallen log. Captain Athos was staring intently at the lines he had drawn with a stick by his feet. Their Captain preferred to think and plan out among his brothers; he planned with maps drawn in the dirt that no one else could decipher but him. The scribbles and scrawls made no sense to d'Artagnan but he knew he would follow this man and his orders without a doubt or question.

"Come Athos, stop your squiggling and eat your breakfast before it gets cold," Aramis clucked as he stood over him brandishing two bowls.

He handed one to Porthos, the other pushed into Athos' hands and Aramis returned with his own bowl of steaming porridge coming to sit beside Porthos on a log opposite them. Mornings like these, with his brothers surrounding him and the teasing flowing easily between them d'Artagnan could almost forget about the world; could forget that they were living in the days that were flooded with rains of fire and metal and blood more often than not. He could close his eyes and imagine away all the other men that would soon be up and wanting Athos' command, wanting Aramis' healing, wanting Porthos' instinct's and wanting his own resilience for another patrol or another scouting or another march.

He felt a shoulder bump into his own and found Athos giving him an inquiring look. Despite the weight of command that had fallen on his shoulders the blue gaze that met his was steady, confident and caring.

" 'tis nothing," d'Artagnan spooned some porridge into his mouth, "just tired I guess."

"You'll get used to being a part of the last watch," Aramis smiled at him, "I prefer it actually."

"Keeps you more alert through the morning," Porthos nodded.

"And makes you an irritated bear by the evening," Aramis poked Porthos in the ribs and ducked to escape the swipe for his head.

He was still grinning when Porthos smacked him in the chest with the back of his hand and Aramis fell off the log. He landed on his back with the remains of his breakfast staining the front of his shirt and then Porthos' laughter was booming across the camp.

The big man dodged the sticky fingers that came to wipe at his uniform as Aramis sat back up.

"Children," Athos raised a brow, "we don't play with our food."

"Why Athos, do you feel left out?" Aramis grinned.

He reached a porridge stained hand towards Athos and the Captain leaned back where he sat. His unimpressed glare was tempered by the upwards curl at the corner of his lips. D'Artagnan shook his head, grinning at the wink Aramis sent his way. Impulsive though the man was in his passion but d'Artagnan was always drawn to bask in his cheerful mischief and relentless optimism.

"Captain? You sent for me?" a Musketeer spoke from outside of their circle.

"Yes Marcel," Athos got to his feet, "You'll be heading a scouting party ahead of us; leave after breakfast and report back by noon. We'll have broken camp by then so that we can march ahead to join General Lantier's company at the front."

He watched his mentor effortlessly slip into the mantle of captaincy as Athos walked away from them. Turning his attention back to his breakfast d'Artagnan deliberately ignored the other two looking at him. He knew he wasn't acting like a brave, motivated soldier as he ought to. After all being a Musketeer and mentored by the Inseparables no less demanded a certain level of boldness and swagger.

But over three years of sleeping fully armed, expecting the enemy in every bush and bend, and walking back from battlefields in boots caked with red mud had taken the shine out of heroism; the grave reality of courage settling in his bones was still prone to growing pains.

"I have to check on the wounded going back home," Aramis' voice cut through his musings.

"Have to account the ammunition we received last night," Porthos said.

The two left him with a pat on the back and a fleeting grip on his shoulder. He set his half eaten breakfast aside and pushed to his feet as well. There were duties he had to fulfill if the camp was to be broken.

" _Constance is worried about you,"_

 _He wishes she wouldn't be._

 _She deserves better._

" _Yes she does,"_

Porthos was not happy as he emerged from among the handful of carts. He frowned at the parchment in his hand and walked past him towards the captain's tent. D'Artagnan followed at his heels, his guts in a knot. Athos and Aramis looked up from where they were studying a map sprawled across the low table.

"Not enough ammunition," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan winced at how this was not a question but a statement. War was expensive and ammunition more so.

"We've plenty of shiny new swords, muskets and musket balls," Porthos said, his lips pulling up in a vicious twist that was not a smile, "seems like our gunpowder got lost on the way,"

 _Laughter._

 _Loud and raucous._

 _Smell of sweat, wine and boiled turnips._

" _Let's get you out of here,"_

Athos questioned the soldier in charge of the supplies brought to them. The man explained how they were ambushed, how he had lost good men in getting the carts to their destination. Nervous and twitchy the soldier seemed to shrink before the captain's glare. D'Artagnan did not like the worry behind the frustration in those blue eyes and glanced back to the men still standing by the carts that had made it. Part of him wondered how most of the ammunition that had reached them was useless without the gunpowder and the rest frowned at how young these men were.

It seemed every time he turned around the new wave of soldiers had shed more years than the last.

" _You cannot let your talent to go to waste like this; you have the knowledge and the experience of the frontlines –"_

" _I don't want it!"_

 _He wishes he didn't have it; the cost of it is too steep. He wishes he could trade it back for what he had lost. He will give it all away and more just to see another of those private smiles, to hear another of that brave laugh, for another of that sharp gleam in dearly familiar eyes._

" _I know, but you can't."_

 _And he hates it._

They marched on; regardless of the lack of ammunition, of the cold, of the fatigue and of the ever present possibility of death. They marched on like they had before. Soon the monastery of Douai loomed ahead and they followed the winding trail through the forest until it led them to the crest of the cliff. Down before them, reached by slope to the side were the plains where they were to meet the Spanish army.

D'Artagnan dismounted and scanned the grounds below as Athos ordered the men to set up camp beside General Lantier's.

"Breathtaking isn't it?"

D'Artagnan looked to his left where Aramis had come to stand beside him. The marksman was grinning; dark eyes alight with wonder as they roamed over the expanse between the armies. It was reddish-brown, too loose where dry and hard packed where damp, a long stretch of hard rocks and brittle earth. A soil not made for tilling the farmer in him noted even as the soldier was thankful for an even ground underfoot to fight upon, wincing at the memory of ambushes that had found them in the most unhelpful terrains in the past years.

"It's a battleground," he said.

"Not yet," Aramis said, "it's still an open expanse that could be anything. And even after it's a battlefield no more there are endless possibilities of what it still could be. Possibilities that will inevitably be built on the blood spilled here, on this day."

"I'd rather it not be our blood,"

"I'm with d'Artagnan on that one," Porthos said.

He had come up on his other side with the stealth that had surprised his enemies often. He thumped d'Artagnan on the shoulder with the force that once upon a time might have unbalanced him; he could read the same thought in the big man's grin and could not dodge the hand that ruffled his hair, through no lack of effort on his part though.

"You've grown into the uniform after all," Porthos said.

"And out of it," said Athos.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow at the Captain who had dismounted his horse. Athos tapped his hat on his thigh and settled it back on his head before looking to their youngest with a slight tilt up at the corner of his lips.

"You could do with more responsibility to keep you sharp," he said, "Once we get home I'll ask for your promotion to find a good fit for your abilities."

His mouth opened and closed and d'Artagnan looked away. Only to find two fond grins that were mocking as they were pleased. He turned his back to the three of them and stared down at the waiting battlefield. Over five years spent in their company and these men could still make him feel like a child.

"We must be heading down before General Lantier sends out a search party,"

He turned to the sight of Aramis' outstretched arm, fist curled tight in an unspoken oath.

Porthos' hand landed on it.

Athos' grip came third.

And d'Artagnan sealed it with his hand.

There was no need for words; it was the motto that pulsed in their veins.

' _Un pour tous, tous pour un'_

 _They are set in stone above the gates._

 _The gate that is open, the yard that is quiet._

 _He shoves away from the grip keeping him steady and with his hand pressing flat against the wall of the arched entrance, he braces for the footfalls that will not follow him this time. Stares at the lanterns that sit bright atop the empty table in the yard where plans grim and silly will not greet him anymore; looks to the staircase leading up to the Captain's office that will no longer be a perch for unspoken camaraderie and a shared bottle of wine._

 _Blue eyes meet his gaze and they are not dry._

Athos turned back to regard the enemy awaiting at the other end of the stretch. They were outnumbered, they were outgunned and they fell into ranks for the assault at his orders. Athos raised his sword and as one they all responded, wordless cries swelling in a wave as they charged across the land and broke onto the line of muskets and bayonets.

The cries of the dying and the snarls of the living mixed with the bark of muskets, the boom of cannons and the clang of swords in a farewell song. Dirt and blood and smoke painted the air and d'Artagnan felt a grim smile touch his lips as the thrum of battle smoothed out past hurts, chased away shadows of fear with the blaze of desire to live, to survive. It was odd he mused, to run at the loaded muskets pointed his way and still hold on tight to the desire to stay alive, to spin in a whirl of blades and pray that none cuts your thread of life.

He blocked the sword coming for his neck and stabbed his parrying dagger in his opponent's gut, turned around and slashed the throat of the one behind him. Felt his body jerk against the hit to his shoulder, gasped when the abrupt blunt pain spread like fire in his flesh. He sucked in a breath as his sword slipped from his fingers, blinked as a blade flashed near his middle only to be stopped by another.

Porthos grimaced.

And d'Artagnan's eyes widened at the sight of another blade, the tip of which gleamed red from where it was protruding from Porthos' side. With his strength draining from the hole in his shoulder he raised his dagger again and buried it in the man on Porthos' other side.

The big man yanked out the sword that had gone through his stomach side to side and stabbed it in the enemy who was behind d'Artagnan.

Someone grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet and d'Artagnan felt his leg give way under him. He stared in wonder at the long gash that had opened his leg from his knee to his hip; he had no idea when he had received the wound.

"C'mon d'Artagnan, help me a bit here," Aramis said.

He sounded breathless.

"There!" Athos said.

He wanted to see what the man was referring to but all d'Artagnan saw was Athos' back as the man fought left handed, his right pressed to the side of his neck. Aramis was dragging him back, Porthos was stumbling along. And then the ground dipped under his staggering gait and d'Artagnan found a dirt wall at his back. Athos landed on one side of him and Porthos on the other.

They were in a ditch.

"Is he –"

"Losing blood too fast," Aramis cleared his throat, "Porthos sit back down right now. Don't let up the pressure on that Athos,"

The sounds and the colours muffled into a single blur before something clamped tight onto the wound on his shoulder. D'Artagnan gasped, his body pulled taut between the fire in his shoulder and the blaze in his leg. The vice around his leg tightened and he screamed.

"That's it; t's alrigh'," Aramis coughed, "jus' a flesh wound,"

D'Artagnan groaned.

"P'rths," he managed to raise himself a little, "where's –"

" 'm here," Porthos said from his side.

He stared at the man who was clutching his sides and was pressed back against the dirt wall, his jaw clenched tight against the soft moans that thrummed in his breath. D'Artagnan' eyes darted to find Aramis; he needed the man to help Porthos.

" 's he alrigh'?" Athos' voice was thin.

"F'r now," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan rolled his head to the other side in time to catch Athos' smile. But his friend's face was too white and his eyes too sunken. His hand was stained red where it rested at the side of his throat, the side that was missing a good chunk of flesh.

"No, no,"

At his words Athos' eyes shifted to his own, the light there dimming like cooling embers.

"See y' in awhile br'th'r," Aramis murmured.

" 'Mis?"

"Rest P''ths,"

"F'r a min'te,"

"Yes," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan pulled his blurring gaze from the man at his side.

"What?" he looked to Aramis.

Groaned a little as the man squeezed in between him and Porthos, but his burning eyes did not miss the hole in Aramis upper back that had stained his coat red. His hand twitched under Athos' that was lying on his chest but stilled when Porthos' large hand landed on top of Athos'. Aramis huffed wetly and placed his own on top of the pile; this time d'Artagnan saw the crimson staining his mouth.

And as Porthos quieted and Aramis stilled d'Artagnan tasted salt on his lips.

As the battle winded down in the distance he felt the grief wrack his weary body like an old ship tossed in a stormy sea. Unbidden in his mind came another time when Athos had faced a line of muskets, his friend's words at the rescue echoed in his numbing mind and d'Artagnan sniffled.

"You cannot shake these two off Athos," he told the blue, blue sky.

 _Blue of the musketeer cloak hanging on a chair, blue of the Minister's robes swishing as he straightens; blue of Treville's eyes that gleam with unshed tears._

" _Our city is burning; people are losing faith in their protectors. Paris needs a leader for its defenders."_

 _The wooden floor is hard under his knees. The smell of vomit mixes with that of ink and paper that is a staple of the captain's office._

" _I am not that man," he says to the floor._

" _Yes you are, if there is anyone who is right for this position it is you,"_

" _I don't deserve this; don't deserve to be here. They shouldn't have –"_

 _Red curls fill his vision._

" _Don't you dare belittle their sacrifice. Don't you dare take away the choice that they made," she cradles his face and does not flinch away from his glare, "It was their decision, their last one."_

" _I'm not worth that much Constance,"_

" _To them you were,"_

He woke up in agony. His shoulder and leg hurt too.

"Careful son," the old man placed a hand on his good shoulder, "slowly now, the fever had only just broken."

"My brothers," his voice came out hoarse and he licked his cracked lips, "they were – with me, my brothers,"

"I don't know where they are but I can help you find them," the man offers, "I am the Abbot at the monastery in Douai, the wounded were brought to us last evening,"

He moved closer with an earthen cup, the cool edge touched his lips but d'Artagnan shook his head.

"It is just water,"

"My brothers," he repeated, "find them please,"

"You need to drink,"

The Abbot lifted his head again and d'Artagnan drank the water until he coughed. Raging thirst dried his mouth but the water sat like bile in his stomach. Closing his eyes he took a breath, felt the tears prickling against closed eyelids and looked to the man who had settled him back on the narrow cot.

"Please find them," d'Artagnan said

"I will try my best," the Abbot took to his feet, "tell me their names and I will check among the wounded."

"Athos, Porthos and Aramis," he swallowed the lump in his throat, "they are dead,"

" _They are dead, mon Dieu they are dead," his fingers curl in his hair, dig in his scalp and clutch at the strands, "they're dead."_

" _But you are alive," she says, "and I'm so thankful for that, so grateful."_

" _They are gone Constance,"_

He stood at the edge of the cliff and looked back at the three graves dug as near to the crest as possible. The crosses stood in a neat line, shoulder to shoulder. D'Artagnan limped back to stand beside the Abbot, thankful that the man hadn't questioned his desire to have his brothers buried here, from where they could keep watch over the border of the country they had fought for.

"Would you like to say a few words?" the man asked.

His gaze blurred and his mind blanked. What was he to say for the men who had taken him off the path of revenge to one of purpose? Who had been his brothers not by the blood in their veins but the blood they had spilt together? He had nothing to offer but a half finished promise.

"One for all and all for one."

He looked down at the three pauldrons in his hands; put one over the other until three became one.

 _He buttons up his doublet and ties Porthos' bandana on his head before placing Athos' hat on top of it. Aramis' pistols find home with his own sword at his side. With one last glance at the three pauldrons sitting in a line atop the cabinet he steps out onto the balcony._

" _Now that's a way to make an entrance," Aramis says._

 _Pushes away from the wall he has been leaning against as the other two turn to look back at him from where they stand by the railing. Porthos is still looking him up and down while Athos raises an eyebrow, part mocking part proud._

" _It doesn't look right on you, too shiny, too new,"_

" _It's like your Mum dressed you,"_

" _Exactly,"_

 _He shakes his head and walks past the two to get a better view of the yard in the wintery dawn. Grasps the cool edge of the balustrade and watches the men emerging from their rooms, heading towards the refectory in a walk that's more asleep than awake. They are children he thinks, feels aged in the decades for each year spent on the frontlines and double of that for the devastating loss that had came in last._

 _Athos has his arms crossed before his chest even as the blue eyes burn holes in the side of his head. Porthos shifts closer to his side and Aramis hovers behind his shoulder. They're closing ranks around him; even now._

 _He blinks and focuses on the one young Musketeer who plops onto the bench and lets his head fall onto the table in the yard; doesn't look up as another takes a seat beside him, even when the newcomer plucks his own hat to drop onto the bent head and tips it just so to shade from the sunbeams breaking through the haze. The second one looks back as another man leaves the refectory carrying half a loaf of bread, three steaming bowls and a bottle of wine under his arm._

 _He watches their quiet breakfast that is dotted with hushed teasing he cannot clearly hear; and ignores the meaningful looks that the three around him share amongst themselves. A wink, a grin, a tilt of the head; their silent communication ending with three sets of eyes coming to rest on him._

 _It is time._

 _The men are gathering in the yard, shuffling into some semblance of lines as they await their orders. He straightens away from the railing, pulls his doublet smooth and marches along the balcony; stops only for a second to blink at the three men now standing halfway down the stairs and looking up at him._

 _Smiles full of mischief._

 _Eyes full of respect._

 _He had bled with these men._

 _He had walked through fire with them._

 _And he knows he will do this; for their pride that they had in each other, their brotherhood that made them a legend, their stories that will never die and most of all he would do this to become the man they saw him to be._

 _Captain D'Artagnan of the Musketeers takes his place before his men._

 _He will build his future to honour their past._

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 _ **Now I see fire  
Inside the mountain  
I see fire  
Burning the trees  
I see fire  
Hollowing souls  
I see fire  
Blood in the breeze  
And I hope that you remember me**_

― _**Ed Sheeran**_

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 **Thank you for reading! Would love to hear your thoughts on this.**


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